I lean in and wipe a blue smudge off my cheek with my thumb.
God, Emma. Can younotlook like a walking art project for five minutes?
I spent the entire afternoon painting while listening toDissolved Girlby Massive Attack on repeat—completely losing track of time. It's not that I forgot about the Property Group’s New Year’s Eve party, it's just... I was in the zone. That deep, meditative, art-eats-time zone I can never pull myself out of easily.
Brenda said the party’s happening on one of the most exclusive rooftops in Miami—overlooking the beach, ocean views, that whole elite energy. She was excited. Me? The onlyreason I’m bothering to stop painting tonight is because I knowLuca Walkerwill be there.
So yeah, I made an effort.
I’m wearing a little black dress. The kind that hugs a little too hard and reveals a little too much—backless, tight, a last-minute online buy that arrived three sizes too small and stayed in my closet waiting for an occasion like this. Tonight’s the night. I look like the midnight Barbie. The shoes were on sale at Ross—glory be—and they’ll probably destroy my feet by midnight, but whatever. My blonde hair is down in soft waves, lighter than ever from all this Florida sun. Even my cheeks are sun-kissed. I look alive, maybe even a little golden.
My Uber shows up. The driver’s a woman in her forties with a big smile. She glances at me through the rearview mirror. “Evening! You look like someone who needs the right song to shake off the nerves.”
I laugh. “That obvious?”
“Very. Let me help.”
She taps a button, and salsa fills the car like a burst of energy. She’s shimmying her shoulders to the beat. I find myself smiling and tapping my foot, the tension in my chest loosening as we cross over to Miami Beach. The city’s buzzing—boats lit up like Christmas trees, people spilling out into the streets in sequins and heels and button-down shirts that’ll be sweat-soaked in an hour. The vibe?Electric.
As we pull up, she lowers the music. “Feeling better?”
“Definitely.”
“Good. Tonight’s for fresh starts, chica. Don’t forget it.”
“Happy New Year,” I say, and mean it.
The building is only three stories tall, but from the street, I can see that the rooftop is packed. Music drifts down, and the sea breeze cuts through the warmth like a flirt. I take the narrowstaircase two steps at a time, the bass growing louder with every floor, until I push through the door at the top.
The rooftop is a swirl of champagne, laughter, and too-loud conversations. I find my coworkers gathered in a corner, already laughing way too hard.
“Emma!” they shout.
Sam hands me a bubbly drink, and before I can process anything, I’m caught up in the chaos. The ocean hums in the background, but the bass and chatter drown it out. It’s all sensory overload, but in a fun, party-on-a-rooftop-in-Miami kind of way.
Everyone’s here—except him.
Where’s Luca? And then, like some cruel twist of fate, the crowd shifts. There he is.
Luca Walker, on the opposite side of the terrace, was talking to some guy. He looks...painfully good. Dark suit, crisp lines, posture so clean it’s criminal. But it’s not the suit that steals my breath. It’s the black handkerchief in his breast pocket.Myhandkerchief. The one I saw in that drawer. The one he’s kept all these years.
My heart lurches, and I nearly drop my drink.
He extends his arm, smooth, commanding. “Come with me.”
I loop my arm through his, pulse hammering in my throat. His suit sleeve brushes against my bare skin, and the contact is enough to light me up. He leads me toward the terrace’s edge, where the crowd thins and the ocean breeze cuts sharper, carrying salt, champagne, and bass from the rooftop speakers.
I grip the railing, fingers curling around the cold metal as if it can steady me. “This is a great spot.”
“I didn’t pick it. It’s where they do it every year.”
Then I feel it—his fingertips grazing my back, slow, deliberate, as though testing how much he can get away with. The air leaves my lungs. I glance over my shoulder, and he’s noteven pretending to hide it. He’s staring at his own hand like it belongs there.
“Luca…”
“Sorry,” he murmurs, though there’s no remorse in the way his gaze drags over me. His voice dips, low and intimate. “You look incredible tonight. I lost control.”
Heat floods my face. My hands won’t stay still; I twist my rings, tug at the hem of my dress, anything to distract from how badly I’m trembling. “Th-thank you. What’s with the handkerchief?”
